


Gratitude

by justonelastdance



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Proceed with caution, Self-Hatred, Sexual Abuse, but it's still on the higher end of M, but like in a creepy and fucked up way, i didn't rate this E because it's not explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:00:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29382426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justonelastdance/pseuds/justonelastdance
Summary: Sauron takes care of Maedhros after a torture session. Taking Fingon's form doesn't help at all.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 31





	Gratitude

**Author's Note:**

> This is essentially what Mae was talking about in [Return to Reality](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29292447), the latest fic I posted. You don't need to read it to understand this one.

He opens his eyes because of pain, loses consciousness again because of it, and then comes to once more. He has no awareness of his body, he only knows that it hurts. He knows nothing but pain, even his own name escapes him amid the onslaught of hurt. Vaguely, he feels that he is being washed and his wounds are being treated, but instead of relief, the feeling brings despair.

His senses slowly return, but the pain lessens only marginally. He knows now that he's lying on his side in a bed, which promises nothing good. He remembers the unrelenting torture and degradation he was put through because, in a mad and rare fit of defiance, he called the self-proclaimed Master of Arda by the name given by his father. He recognizes Sauron bent over him, smearing salve over a burn on his lower back.

"Valaraukar, Maitimo?" Sauron says, noticing immediately that he's awake. "You just had to make him so furious that he would summon them. You are lucky to be alive."

The smirk on his face clearly shows that he knows Maitimo's not lucky at all.

"Now I am burdened with your care," he says. "But I do not mind, not really."

His hand slides down and then there are fingers inside Maitimo, cold and slick. He gasps and twists and can't do anything else.

"Calm down, I am trying to help you," Sauron says. "This will lessen the pain and aid the healing."

He takes his time with spreading the salve, his eyes fixed on Maitimo's face. It does bring relief, soothing the searing pain, but Maitimo's entire body burns with humiliation, which the overwhelming gratitude only amplifies. 

"What do we say when someone does us a favor, Maitimo?" Sauron asks, stretching next to him.

"Thank you," Maitimo says.

He hates himself for it. Hates himself for truly meaning it, hates that he would say it — was going to say it — even without prompting. He wishes he were gone far enough so that he would feel no shame, could accept the relief without guilt, could become a mindless creature, living only on the instinct of avoiding pain at any cost and feeling happy when he does. He wishes he could silence the part that makes him hate himself, and he hates himself for that thought too. 

That part is never silent. It screams and screams and screams. It burns hot inside of him as Sauron dresses the last of his wounds gentler than any healer. It rages as Sauron braids his hair and puts a kiss on top of his head. It threatens to break out of its cage as Sauron coaxes him to relax in his arms, and when Maitimo rests his head against the Maia's shoulder, it fills him with self-loathing so pure and intense that Maitimo believes it will pulverize everything inside him and leave him an empty shell. He wishes it would disappear and stay gone forever. He knows that losing it, the last part of him that still fights, even by the means of hatred, will mean losing himself, but he's past caring. He just wants one moment of peace, one moment of not feeling.

His eyes are closed but he perceives the change. The Maia's hair, fallen over Maitimo's arms and shoulders, becomes thicker, heavier. The smell of molten metal is hidden behind a heady scent of wood and earth. The narrow palm on his back widens, its uncomfortable heat giving place to gentle warmth.

"Open your eyes, Russandol," says a terrible, dearly beloved voice.

He does. He knew what he would see, but it's still a blow. Every time. It takes his breath away. Even his self-hating part is shocked into temporary silence. Findekáno's bright eyes are looking at him, his soft lips are curled in an uncharacteristic smirk, which disappears when Sauron realizes Maitimo has noticed it. 

He used to put up a fight when this happened. He used to yell at Sauron, curse him, tell him that he will never be Findekáno, that he doesn't deserve even to utter his name. But he's in pain, he can't move, can't even form proper sentences, and he's so tired, and it's not Findekáno but still looks like him, and he will never see the real one again, and he misses him more than he misses the starlight, more than he misses freedom, more than he misses being without pain. He's tired. He smiles. Findekáno's mouth smiles too.

Then his leg slides between Maitimo's, and the hand on his back moves lower down. 

"Did you miss me?"

Despite the rising terror, Maitimo nods because he did, he still does. He is pulled closer and he squirms, tries to get free without much success.

"What is it, Russo? Do you not want this?" A warm hand cups his cheek, and Maitimo tries not to lean into the touch, but he's weak and it's Findekáno's touch and he can't resist. "I thought you missed me," says Findekáno's voice. "Would you not let me enjoy our meeting?" 

Maitimo shakes his head. "Please," he says. "I don't-I don't—"

His self-loathing returns. It always does when he begs. He has mostly stopped begging when he's being hurt, at least voluntarily. The pleas that spill out of his lips against his will when he's delirious with pain make no difference to the Moringotto or the Valaraukar. But the worst thing about Sauron is that begging might just work if you do it the right way and if he feels so inclined.

"No?" 

Findekáno's voice is quiet. Maitimo shudders. 

"Please," he murmurs. He turns his head and kisses the familiar calloused palm. "Please don't. Don't, F-finno."

Maybe he wouldn't beg if Sauron didn't look like this. Maybe he would stay silent and let him do it. But the idea of _Findekáno_ hurting him in that way is unbearable. Every time it happens, another part of Maitimo's fëa is chipped away. There isn't much left of it. And it makes Maitimo _furious_ on Findekáno's behalf. Even though he deserves it, he knows Findekáno would _never_ do anything so vile. 

"Please," he repeats, pressing his lips to Findekáno's palm again and again. 

"What's wrong, Russandol?" Findekáno drawls. That's not the way he talks and Sauron must have guessed it by the minute shift in Maitimo's expression because he changes his tone, speaks more eagerly, more sincerely. "Would you like to take me, beloved? I will ride you."

Maitimo shakes his head because he can't, especially when he's in so much pain he can barely move. He hasn't been able to maintain an erection for a while, even with the potions Sauron has been feeding him. He wonders if he will ever be able to get aroused again and hopes not. It's one less thing they can use to torment him. 

Findekáno's lips curl up in a gentle smile. "Are you not in the mood?" he asks. "All right, Russo, I will not insist."

The relief and gratitude make Maitimo giddy. He starts shivering.

"Thank you, thank you," he whispers.

Findekáno's hand strokes his hair, then pulls up the cover, hiding his naked body. Maitimo's eyes fill with hot tears in the face of this rare kindness.

When Findekáno's likeness goes for a kiss, Maitimo obliges without a second thought. It's a laughable price to pay for a few undisturbed hours and it almost feels like kissing Findekáno. Almost but not quite. 

"You look so tired, Russo. Do you want to rest?" asks Findekáno's voice.

Maitimo nods, then fearing it won't be enough, adds _please_ and then _Finno_ for good measure. Sauron loves it when he participates in the game.

Findekáno's arms wrap around him and his head rests against Findekáno's shoulder. He doesn't know how long he has. Doesn't know how long until the gentle touch becomes painful again, how long when Findekáno's kind smile turns to Sauron's poisonous smirk. 

He ignores these thoughts. He ignores the shame and the guilt, ignores how much he hates himself, ignores the part of him that keeps screaming and raging, and falls asleep in Findekáno's embrace.


End file.
